just like the old times
by Fruityloo
Summary: "You know what they say about cornered dogs."
1. bark and bite

"You know," Neal starts, venom crawling up into his throat, into his words; the trapped frustration in Keller's stare is more satisfying than Neal would ever admit, "I always heard Interpol had one foot in the future. They don't slap bulky anklets on their criminal informants. That'd be too inelegant, too crass, too American. Instead they insert chips under the skin of their informants like dogs." Neal digs his thumb into Keller's arm, nail first like he wants to open the incision up and see his shame laid bloody and bare. He wants it to hurt, wants to see Keller wince and try to pull away; to see him vulnerable. The skin is pink and hot in the cold Hudson air.

 _We're the same now, Caffrey_ , says the sharp bright glint of his eyes, but he doesn't give the satisfaction of letting Neal see him flinch. Instead he smiles, a hair's breadth short of sneering. His jaw juts out in challenge. "You know what they say about cornered dogs."

"We bite," Neal growls, and crowds him into the wall, chests pressed flat against each other, one arm on his shoulder and the other pressing hard into the chip. And they're kissing. Frustration bursts from Neal's tongue into his teeth, biting harshly at Matthew's lip and pulling without grace.

He's not Keller now, but Matthew. Neal realizes it with a jolt, a jolt that turns into a growl that snaps Matthew from his surprise and has him shoving a knee between Neal's legs. He sucks a sharp breath through his teeth; it's too much too fast, and yet it's like the decade of distance between them never passed at all. Because Matthew is hard against his hip and Neal's humping his leg and they're kissing like they've got a goddamn blueprint to drive each other crazy. More teeth that lips, little tongue; Neal's always thought himself a soft lover, but Matthew draws something out in him. Something violent and possessive that demands to claim. They're both caged dogs growling at their masters but too afraid to bit the hand that feeds, but they can bite each other, and they do.

" _Neal_ ," he growls, their kiss abruptly breaking. Neal says nothing, and wastes no time relocating from lips to throat, sucking hard at his adam's apple until whatever Matthew was about to say cuts off into a moal. He grins, tasting salt under his tongue, and bites. "Oh, _fuck,_ Neal _,_ you- _fuck-_ " his head slams back into the wall and Neal, he just bites a little harder and sets to sucking a bright blue bruise onto Matthew's neck. Half inch below the ear and entirely visible.

He's so intent on staking his claim that the rustle of Matthew shifting his arm between them registers as irrelevant. Until Matthew grips him through his slacks and squeezes, too hard, and the high sound that breaks from his throat loosens his teeth from Matthew's neck and he groans loud into his shoulder.

"Two can play at this game, Neal," he says, triumph dampened only by the shaky desperation in his voice. The tone registers before meaning, but Neal realizes with a gasp that right now, he's Neal to Matthew, not Caffrey, not _rat_ , not _weakling_ , but Neal. So close to feeling like old times that he shudders, not because of Matthew's hand or the cold air on his hot skin but because this is _so damn familiar_. Matthew fumbles for his zipper, fingers nimble as he remembers, and Neal braces himself against the wall with an arm above Matthew's head, puffing hot air into his ear, eyes squeezed shut.

"Not a game," Neal barely gets it out. Not even sure if he means it. But if Matthew has an opinion on the matter, he merely makes quick work of his zipper and shoves a hand down his front, inelegant. The grip is too-hard on purpose, calloused fingers stroking with purpose. He jerks his hips forward, hissing when Matthew scraps his palm over his sensitive head, gathering evidence of how _right_ the roughness hits him. Neal breaks into something low, and feral, a snapping dog.

"We always been a game," Matthew laughs, and twists his wrist on the upstroke. Neal kicks the wall hard, anything to keep from shouting and drawing the rest of the Panthers out to watch their show. "Admit it, you'd be bored without me." He digs his thumb into the slit. It takes every ounce of control to stave off orgasm. He can't finish, not before he's given as good as he got.

But Matthew is determined. "Fuckin' missed this, Neal," a slow drag down, and _fuck_ , fuck that hurts, but god it's good, and Matthew knows it, and knows he's stolen the upper hand. Neal never planned to kiss Matthew, but something about seeing him pinned beneath Interpol's thumb, seeing him vulnerable, _demeaned_ \- there's beauty in tragedy, Neal knows, and god if it didn't look good on Matthew.

He's fairly sure he never had the upper hand here. Matthew thumbs his slit again and the sound Neal makes is trapped somewhere between a moan and a sob. "So pretty when you moan," he shifts his knee up higher, puts pressure against Neal's balls and strokes hard. Every inch of him trembles. Fuck, he's close; whatever this is spun terribly out of control- "You close?" Neal doesn't know what he nods, but buries his face in Matthew's shoulder, breathes in his sweat as his hand gets faster, more erratic, "Know you wanna cum. Do it, Neal."

The world whites. The smooth black leather of Matthew's jacket shimmers silver and he cums into Matthew's hand, never letting go of his chipped forearm.

He pants, and Matthew pants, breath labored yet perfectly in sync. For a long, blissful moment, Neal almost forgets who he is and why he's here. The only sounds are their breathing and the Hudson river lapping evenly against the docks.

Then reality sinks in, and Neal sinks to his knees.

He always gives as good as he gets.

Above him, Matthew laughs, still breathless. But he leans heavy on the wall and juts his hips outward, silent invitation. Fair is fair, right, Neal? He doesn't say it because he knows he doesn't need too. Neal puts one hand on Matthew's hips to hold him steady and undoes his fly with the other, quick and efficient and far more elegant as he exposes Matthew to the cold and wet dock air, even if he does fumble with haste.

"On with it, Neal."

Neal growls and immediately drags his teeth over the head, doesn't complain and doesn't choke when Matthew jolts forward at the sudden sensation. He laughs again, laughter and breaks into halting gasps as Neal sinks down. He works his tongue over the head and swallows another inch, repeats this until his nose meets flushed skin. He flicks his gaze up; if it's possible to smirk with a cock in his mouth and sweat all down his neck, Neal manages.

"You haven't lost your touch," Matthew breathes, "Practicing on Peter are you?" Neal can't respond but the answer is no, never. Not for lack of wanting, but Peter won't allow it; and if he did, it wouldn't be this rough or hurried or violently possessive. Neal is a sof lover. Truly. It's just, it's _Matthew_ -

He grips his hair and pulls him back down. Neal gags but he takes it, lifts a hand and swats and Matthew's arms. _I'm in control here_ , he slowly drags back up until just the tip is left, tongue working; teeth, dragging.

"You and your fucking _teeth-_ " his head slams back into the wall for the second time. Neal picks up his rhythm and drinks in every swear, every stuttering gasp.

And maybe it's a game. But there aren't any winners here, just players-

"Neal, I'm gonna-"his hips cant forward, but this time Neal is ready. He swallows and ducks his head down, forearm pressing hard into Matthew's abdomen, "You're-"

Whatever he was about to say is lost in his shout. Neal works his tongue all through Matthew's orgasm and watches his face contort, eyes squeezed shut, open and beautifully vulnerable.

He leans back slowly, relishing in how Matthew hisses with over-sensitive flesh. Matthew sags against the wall and stares down at him, eyes shiny with post-coital something. Neal licks his lips, and that seems to break the stillness. Matthew tucks himself back in and offers Neal a hand to help him to his feet.

Neal sets about straightening his slacks and tries not to shudder from all the cooling sweat. He feels slimy, and sated.

"We should do this more often," Matthew picks his hat off the ground and hands it to him, "Now that we're on the same side again." As if the distance between them was a result of opposing loyalties and not a chasm of conflicting morality.

But Neal has the feeling they'll be doing this again.


	2. call a wolf a wolf

"You know," Neal starts, venom crawling up into his throat, into his words; the trapped frustration in Keller's stare is more satisfying than Neal would ever admit, "I always heard Interpol had one foot in the future. They don't slap bulky anklets on their criminal informants. That'd be too inelegant, too crass, too American. Instead they insert chips under the skin of their informants like dogs." Neal digs his thumb into Keller's arm, nail first like he wants to open the incision up and see his shame laid bloody and bare. He wants it to hurt, wants to see Keller wince and try to pull away; to see him vulnerable. The skin is pink and hot in the cold Hudson air.

 _We're the same now, Caffrey_ , says the sharp bright glint of his eyes, but he doesn't give the satisfaction of letting Neal see him flinch. Instead he smiles, a hair's breadth short of sneering. His jaw juts out in challenge. "You know what they say about cornered dogs."

"We bite," Neal growls, and crowds him into the wall, chests pressed flat against each other, one arm on his shoulder and the other pressing hard into the chip. And they're kissing. Frustration bursts from Neal's tongue into his teeth, biting harshly at Matthew's lip and pulling without grace.

He's not Keller now, but Matthew. Neal realizes it with a jolt, a jolt that turns into a growl that snaps Matthew from his surprise and has him shoving a knee between Neal's legs. He sucks a sharp breath through his teeth; it's too much too fast, and yet it's like the decade of distance between them never passed at all. Because Matthew is hard against his hip and Neal's humping his leg and they're kissing like they've got a goddamn blueprint to drive each other crazy. More teeth that lips, little tongue; Neal's always thought himself a soft lover, but Matthew draws something out in him. Something violent and possessive that demands to claim. They're both caged dogs growling at their masters but too afraid to bit the hand that feeds, but they can bite each other, and they do.

" _Neal_ ," he growls, their kiss abruptly breaking. Neal says nothing, and wastes no time relocating from lips to throat, sucking hard at his adam's apple until whatever Matthew was about to say cuts off into a moal. He grins, tasting salt under his tongue, and bites. "Oh, _fuck,_ Neal _,_ you- _fuck-_ " his head slams back into the wall and Neal, he just bites a little harder and sets to sucking a bright blue bruise onto Matthew's neck. Half inch below the ear and entirely visible.

He's so intent on staking his claim that the rustle of Matthew shifting his arm between them registers as irrelevant. Until Matthew grips him through his slacks and squeezes, too hard, and the high sound that breaks from his throat loosens his teeth from Matthew's neck and he groans loud into his shoulder.

"Two can play at this game, Neal," he says, triumph dampened only by the shaky desperation in his voice. The tone registers before meaning, but Neal realizes with a gasp that right now, he's Neal to Matthew, not Caffrey, not _rat_ , not _weakling_ , but Neal. So close to feeling like old times that he shudders, not because of Matthew's hand or the cold air on his hot skin but because this is _so damn familiar_. Matthew fumbles for his zipper, fingers nimble as he remembers, and Neal braces himself against the wall with an arm above Matthew's head, puffing hot air into his ear, eyes squeezed shut.

"Not a game," Neal barely gets it out. Not even sure if he means it. But if Matthew has an opinion on the matter, he merely makes quick work of his zipper and shoves a hand down his front, inelegant. The grip is too-hard on purpose, calloused fingers stroking with purpose. He jerks his hips forward, hissing when Matthew scraps his palm over his sensitive head, gathering evidence of how _right_ the roughness hits him. Neal breaks into something low, and feral, a snapping dog.

"We always been a game," Matthew laughs, and twists his wrist on the upstroke. Neal kicks the wall hard, anything to keep from shouting and drawing the rest of the Panthers out to watch their show. "Admit it, you'd be bored without me." He digs his thumb into the slit. It takes every ounce of control to stave off orgasm. He can't finish, not before he's given as good as he got.

But Matthew is determined. "Fuckin' missed this, Neal," a slow drag down, and _fuck_ , fuck that hurts, but god it's good, and Matthew knows it, and knows he's stolen the upper hand. Neal never planned to kiss Matthew, but something about seeing him pinned beneath Interpol's thumb, seeing him vulnerable, _demeaned_ \- there's beauty in tragedy, Neal knows, and god if it didn't look good on Matthew.

He's fairly sure he never had the upper hand here. Matthew thumbs his slit again and the sound Neal makes is trapped somewhere between a moan and a sob. "So pretty when you moan," he shifts his knee up higher, puts pressure against Neal's balls and strokes hard. Every inch of him trembles. Fuck, he's close; whatever this is spun terribly out of control- "You close?" Neal doesn't know what he nods, but buries his face in Matthew's shoulder, breathes in his sweat as his hand gets faster, more erratic, "Know you wanna cum. Do it, Neal."

The world whites. The smooth black leather of Matthew's jacket shimmers silver and he cums into Matthew's hand, never letting go of his chipped forearm.

He pants, and Matthew pants, breath labored yet perfectly in sync. For a long, blissful moment, Neal almost forgets who he is and why he's here. The only sounds are their breathing and the Hudson river lapping evenly against the docks.

Then reality sinks in, and Neal sinks to his knees.

He always gives as good as he gets.

Above him, Matthew laughs, still breathless. But he leans heavy on the wall and juts his hips outward, silent invitation. Fair is fair, right, Neal? He doesn't say it because he knows he doesn't need too. Neal puts one hand on Matthew's hips to hold him steady and undoes his fly with the other, quick and efficient and far more elegant as he exposes Matthew to the cold and wet dock air, even if he does fumble with haste.

"On with it, Neal."

Neal growls and immediately drags his teeth over the head, doesn't complain and doesn't choke when Matthew jolts forward at the sudden sensation. He laughs again, laughter and breaks into halting gasps as Neal sinks down. He works his tongue over the head and swallows another inch, repeats this until his nose meets flushed skin. He flicks his gaze up; if it's possible to smirk with a cock in his mouth and sweat all down his neck, Neal manages.

"You haven't lost your touch," Matthew breathes, "Practicing on Peter are you?" Neal can't respond but the answer is no, never. Not for lack of wanting, but Peter won't allow it; and if he did, it wouldn't be this rough or hurried or violently possessive. Neal is a sof lover. Truly. It's just, it's _Matthew_ -

He grips his hair and pulls him back down. Neal gags but he takes it, lifts a hand and swats and Matthew's arms. _I'm in control here_ , he slowly drags back up until just the tip is left, tongue working; teeth, dragging.

"You and your fucking _teeth-_ " his head slams back into the wall for the second time. Neal picks up his rhythm and drinks in every swear, every stuttering gasp.

And maybe it's a game. But there aren't any winners here, just players-

"Neal, I'm gonna-"his hips cant forward, but this time Neal is ready. He swallows and ducks his head down, forearm pressing hard into Matthew's abdomen, "You're-"

Whatever he was about to say is lost in his shout. Neal works his tongue all through Matthew's orgasm and watches his face contort, eyes squeezed shut, open and beautifully vulnerable.

He leans back slowly, relishing in how Matthew hisses with over-sensitive flesh. Matthew sags against the wall and stares down at him, eyes shiny with post-coital something. Neal licks his lips, and that seems to break the stillness. Matthew tucks himself back in and offers Neal a hand to help him to his feet.

Neal sets about straightening his slacks and tries not to shudder from all the cooling sweat. He feels slimy, and sated.

"We should do this more often," Matthew picks his hat off the ground and hands it to him, "Now that we're on the same side again." As if the distance between them was a result of opposing loyalties and not a chasm of conflicting morality.

But Neal has the feeling they'll be doing this again.


End file.
